The Fog

I walked out into a blinding white. The fog was layered, fumes of molten snow rising into the thin winter air. I took a walk in a world without borders, where crossing the street to reach the closed down golf course I usually take my morning walk on seemed as big an adventure as when I was small.

The world looks strange when smothered by fog. It's a strange freedom, but at the same it's a ghost town, walking up the mountain towards Silent Hill, where the silence is so serene that it wouldn't be a surprise of a nightmare lurked around the next corner. But there are no corners on this golf club. It's one big flat sandbox with the frozen ocean reaching out into an unseen border between the sky and what might be the other side of the gap.

More than once I lost my balance, trudging in tractor tracks on a bland landscape where there were no paths or bunkers or greens or fences, just white in sight. It took a long time to get somewhere, but when I did I went back, and now I'm writing this, filled with inspiration.